


appease

by undermyskin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undermyskin/pseuds/undermyskin
Summary: Triss has made an art out of wearing away Philippa's rougher edges. She suspects Philippa knows, which renders her wary accomplishments all the sweeter.
Relationships: Philippa Eilhart/Triss Merigold
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *beyonce voice* I sneezed on the fic and the fic got thicker. 
> 
> Set in some nebulous time frame after the end of the books.
> 
> Very loosely canon, because a friend asked for this.

I. 

She holds it against her that the window pane has been nudged open and the breeze is shifting over their skins so freely and boldly.

Philippa seems to prefer sticky heat and pooling perspiration over the soothing iciness of the wind even in midsummer, and it's just another one of the many idiosyncrasies Triss secretly fonds over when Philippa's unrelenting scrutiny is not directed at her.

Even so, she cannot possibly be blamed for seeking out some relief during such a warm night, and despite the boiling accusation etched in Philippa's gaze, she says as much resolutely.

"Leave the room then," Philippa states dryly even in her haze. 

Her hair is messy on the pillow and her hands are grasping selfishly at the sheets. Triss has half a mind to tell her just how childish she seems in that moment, hoarding the covers as if it's candy Triss may rip out of her clutch any moment. 

But she thinks better of riling the other woman up at such time of the night. Philippa does not take well to being disturbed during her sleep. It's precious, and between managing a ring of the most powerful and most loudmouth sorceresses in the world and practically running a kingdom, she gets only so little of it. 

So Triss sighs and rises, shrugging on the silk robe discarded on the floor gingerly. She sticks a hand in front of her mouth to muffle the sound of her yawn and makes to leave, but not before shuffling over to the window and latching it closed. 

. 

"What are you thinking about?" Philippa asks, one finger pulling the corner of her eye taut in thought and the other hand still over a parchment. 

Triss spares one glance at her stiff posture before redirecting her gaze out the balcony. 

"Nothing much," she replies earnestly. "The weather's nice."

"It's pouring."

Triss feels a smile tug at her lips but promptly smothers it. "As I said. It's nice." 

There's a book about south-western naiads propped open in her palm, whose 98th page she's been mulling over absently for the last hour without quite the concentration such a task presupposes. 

A moment passes before she hears a faint sigh and the telltale sound of a chair scraping the floor, Philippa's heavy but certain gait approaching from across the room. 

Triss looks up just in time to see Philippa's tired eyes settle on the distant fields outside and the cloudiness looming over them, before she turns to stare down at Triss blankly. 

"Is daydreaming what you waste your time on in my absence?" 

Triss takes the jest on the chin and grins up sweetly at her. "In your presence, mostly."

Philippa blinks at her, shakes her head gently, and heaves another sigh. There's been an inordinate amount of that in the last hour, Triss thinks. One sigh from her usually indicates irritation, but several of them bundled together border on downright frustration. 

The glass of sherry is cool against her fingertips and when she pokes Philippa in the thigh with it, nodding towards the alcohol suggestively, she swears she can see the harshness in her features thaw off. 

Philippa slides it out of her fingertips - her touch is oh so warm - and sinks down on the couch next to her, sipping with a satisfied hum. 

Triss seizes the opportunity as it presents itself and leans in closer, nonchalantly pushing the book off her lap. Her fingers test their good fortune by tracing smooth circles over the pants covering the inside of Philippa's knee. She perches her head atop her other fist, elbow bent over the back of the sofa. 

Philippa must recognize the effort, because her mouth slyly ticks over the rim. 

"Care to share?" Triss offers, voice lilted and face carefully softened. Philippa's brow cocks up inquisitively, but it's obvious that she knows Triss is referring to her troubles, and not the liquor trickling down her throat. 

"Wasn't this high time for daydreaming?" She teases. Her chest rises and falls subtly and rhythmically under her shirt and Triss wonders what it'd feel like to rest her head there at a time when they aren't naked and spent from their customary nightly activities. 

She purses her lips and digs her nails into Philippa's leg. "If that's how you'll be, I'd like my sherry back now," she states, eyebrows lifted in condescension. 

Philippa scoffs. "I believe you're referring to my sherry, which has been steadily depleting under your care."

Triss bites her lip and inches her face even closer, at a distance where she can make out that the glint in Philippa's eyes spells much more exasperation than it does irritation. 

"Please?" She smirks, full of mirth like that of a feline. 

Philippa simply peers into her for a moment before her eyes shift back to the balcony and she favours ignoring over indulging Triss. 

That's rather ill-mannered of hers, Triss muses, but values her own wellbeing too much to vocalize it. 

She releases a dramatic sigh and pulls back instead, picking at the threads of the stitching on the couch absently. 

"You ought to get new curtains for the bedroom," she states, voice purposefully airy. "Preferably of a higher thread count."

Philippa says nothing. 

"Perhaps then if I leave the windows open you may brave midsummer's glacial temperatures..." 

"How thoughtful of yours."

"... And a larger carpet, if you may. Your guestrooms have decor more sophisticated than that flimsy rag."

"My my, aren't we demanding?" Philippa quirks an eyebrow. 

"Very," Triss concedes unironically. Her voice is dripping honey. "Did you not know?" 

She toes off her heels, and stretches further on the couch, draping herself all over it when she bends her knees and lies back. She can no longer see Philippa, but consoles herself with the certainty of the fact that she's displeased with Triss’s antics.

Soon enough, Philippa tsks and Triss can just picture the haughty disdainfulness set on her features. She's been at the receiving end of it time and again, after all. 

"Did I ever..." she mutters, and Triss hums, thoroughly entertained. 

Philippa's pushing off the couch and strolling away the next minute, but she silently places the tumbler on the table next to them and her posture is decidedly looser than it had been minutes ago, not as if she's ready to march into battle but like she's actually loitering around her own living room. 

Triss safely lists it off as a win.

. 

"Where exactly are you off to?" 

Triss bunches the sheets around her more tightly and throws a sidelong glance at Philippa over her shoulder. 

"The guestroom."

Philippa blinks. "Why?" 

"It burns like a furnace in here."

"Triss," Philippa rubs at the skin between her eyebrows with nearly as much exasperation as her voice holds. "I've no patience for your childishness this evening; lie down."

Philippa has had hardly any patience for anything other than work in the past few days. Triss has lost count of the times she's entered the library to find her folded over the desk with her nose planted in scattered documents of varying importance. When she joins Triss for lunch or dinner her cuticles are stained with ink and there are red indents between her fingers where the quill finds purchase for hours on end while she writes. 

Life with Philippa ordinarily entails a whole lot of uneventful afternoons in the office, hand-me-down books that keep Triss occupied until she's feeling jaded and needy - it's the take to her give; enduring Philippa's long streaks of silence on condition that she have her way at the end of them. 

Lately there's been almost none of that - merely Triss cooking up alchemical concoctions in solitude at her lab and gathering herbs from the garden to the point that there's almost no flora left to pluck at. 

Triss knows whatever it is that has Philippa on tenterhooks must be of paramount importance, but it serves her well, she thinks, to sleep alone tonight. She's not been one bit forthcoming about her problems or how Triss suffering through this stifling heat might aid her with them. 

So Triss waves her off dismissively and rises from the bed. 

"Don't fret, Phil," she mumbles, hugging her pillow under her shoulder and moving forward. "Goodnight." 

Philippa is stirring on the bed, mattress creaking and linen rustling, but the silence persists until Triss is two steps out the room and a rough, muffled voice sounds : "Close the-" 

Triss shuts the door before she can finish and exhales evenly, rolling her eyes. 

When she turns left at the corridor there's a servant hovering outside one of the anterooms, and he's staring at the loose fabric concealing her dignity warily. 

Triss smirks to herself before winking at him, amused. She sees his eyes minutely widen but his face quickly disappears behind the wall when she makes her way to the bedchambers. 

. 

"Fine morning," Triss greets when Philippa strolls through the kitchen clad in her favourite shirt and pants. Her hair swoops down over her shoulders in waves and Triss suppresses the itch to mercilessly twist her fingers in them. "How was your sleep?" 

Philippa dips her hands into a pail of water, fingers scrubbing over each other and across her wrists meticulously. When she's finished she gives a small shake - droplets land ungracefully on top of Triss’s cracker and she grimaces as she scoots the plate closer to her chest - and pops two raisins from the nearby plate into her mouth. 

She's regarding Triss closely when she finally states : "convenient. And yours?"

Triss wonders how convenient it would be if she were to accidentally thrust that bucket of cold water over Philippa's head; she sincerely doubts Philippa would seem so listless then. 

She smiles. "Delightful. I'm considering a temporary relocation to that room, it does wonders for my beauty sleep."

She bites into her cracker and eyes Philippa as the other woman hums and pours herself some juice. 

The sounds of morning traffic around the castle and Triss’s eager breakfast prevail; for a short while no words are exchanged between them. 

But after Philippa swallows down the contents of the glass she heads for the exit, and it's then that she twists around to look at Triss with a hint of a cunning smile on her lips. 

"Why not permanent," she offers, and Triss skillfully pretends she's not almost choking on breadcrumbs as they go down the wrong way too fast. "If it's so wondrous."

She turns and leaves and Triss sucks in her cheeks and shoves the plate away, appetite lost. 

. 

She locates Philippa at her office's balcony - glass of wine in one hand and chin resting on the other, leaning on the balustrade almost imperially. 

"Triss," she acknowledges, as if there's a myriad hidden eyes littered across her back. Maybe it's the owl in her. "No flowerpicking in the schedule today?" 

Triss bites her tongue and leisurely walks forward, close enough to Philippa's arm to touch if she wanted to, but she doesn't. 

"Would it be truly so unfathomable to trust me?" She asks after a while - the words have been bouncing off the walls in her head and she could not figure an appropriate enough assortment that would not betray the emotion fueling them. 

If getting through to Philippa stipulates she has to slice herself open in the process, so be it. 

"Unfath-" Philippa huffs and cuts herself off, an odd mix of disbelief and insult. "You live in my home, Triss. You share my bed," she stresses, hawk-eyed. "That's some type of nerve, to question my trust."

"I do not question it; I long for it," Triss corrects. "More of it," she sighs, then looks away. "All of it."

Philippa purses her lips. When Triss glances at her again, she's staring out into the vast fields below them with an unreadable gleam, and her hand is strained on the chalice in her grip. 

"Nobody holds that privilege," Philippa states. "All of my trust," her voice is cold. "It's unlikely anyone ever will. It's inadvisable in our course of business." She turns to fix Triss with a heated look. "Did you not know?" 

They're a hopeless pair, the both of them. A companionship severely mutilated at its birth; but Philippa is right of course, as always. Triss was very well aware of that when she first joined her. 

She was aware even that when it all burns to ashes she's the one who's ill-equipped to survive the downfall - Philippa will most probably walk away unscathed, ready to take on the world and emerge from the conflict bloody and victorious. 

Triss is but a plot point in that; nothing less or more than Montecalvo's spare dog-eared mythology tomes and her own medicinal potpourris, nothing beneath or above witty banter over mild politics with Philippa and the feeling of completeness when in the night her fingers are reaching inside of her with reckless abandon. 

"Did I ever." Triss replies, smiling earnestly in her sorrow. 

It must mean something that there are new drapes drifting left and right over the open window panes when Triss retires for the night, but she doesn't overanalyze it. Sometimes she prefers being so insignificant; it's easy to extract joy from the smaller things when she knows there are hardly any consequences to account for later. 

The only visible effects are hers, and perhaps the reluctant softness dwelling in Philippa's eyes, the warmth of her even breaths on the top of Triss’s spine when she settles in behind her - but these don't count. 

They're too fragile to be meaningful, Triss knows, but she grasps at them greedily regardless, tucking them away for safekeeping, lest one day the two of them fall in shambles and she runs out of small pleasures to subsist on. 


	2. Chapter 2

II. 

"Oh," she sighs, biting down on the knuckles of her fist in a haze. "Oh Gods."

"Don't thank the Gods," Philippa murmurs over hot flesh and Triss tenses and buckles, captive of the other woman's unrelenting ministrations. "Thank me."

Philippa flicks the tip of her tongue, nails digging painfully into her hipbone to emphasize the point, and Triss pretends to feel at least a modicum of shame when the wanton moan strung from her lips echoes loudly enough to wake the whole eastern wing. 

"Thank you," she offers, more a whine than a statement, but she knows it's not nearly enough to stave off the ensuing admonishment. 

Philippa bites down at her in stern caution and pins Triss’s hips to the mattress. "Behave," she hisses. 

But it's so hard to heed her warnings when the prospect of working her up to a state of disarray promises such sweeter results. Triss pictures Rita's face when Philippa joins her in the morning to oversee the transmutation class; she thinks of the novices' knowing and ill-advised looks that will no doubt be shot her way. 

It's one thing for Philippa to be comfortable with her sexuality and licentiousness in the wider context of her long and arduous life, and another to have it interfere with her inherent need to maintain professionalism in occasions such as that of tomorrow. 

Triss recognises that, but the reason seems all too fickle compared to the immensity of her want. 

The thought of Philippa's barely disciplined anger when she will seek Triss out afterwards is enough to have her body shudder heatedly and any lingering sense of self preservation forsake her. 

Where Philippa sucks down Triss arches up, and the motions are succeeded by a series of promiscuous gasps that are sure to land her in trouble. 

After months of sharing a house and a bed, she may have become reasonably well versed in the refined vernaculars of Philippa's microexpressions, yet the dark glare she fixes Triss with when she glances up still manages to carry some unidentified nuance. It's a gleam singlehandedly responsible for the gooseflesh at the back of her neck. 

It's worse that Philippa's tongue isn't yielding as she stares at Triss; if anything, the pressure amplifies torturously and full lips wrap deliberately around the silkiest crevice her body has to offer. 

So it's easier then to take another leap and lose sight of the line she's so carelessly crossed by allowing something even more debauched to twist noisily out of her mouth, because it's not her fault really, if Philippa's eyes dictate one thing but her mouth so selfishly commands another.

The air around her is static, and the sounds filtering through the window she neglected to lock are white noise. She's not certain where the emotion of Philippa's palpable irritation ends and that of her own arousal begins, but she's resolved to test her luck under their combined weight if it kills her. 

She purrs, "you feel so good," fully aware that Philippa will loathe the useless flattery, and is hard pressed to do anything but choke back a sob when the warmth disappears and Philippa cruelly presses two fingers inside, face stormy where it lifts to loom over Triss's.

It's unfair that she should remain so equanimous when Triss is panting and whining and careening off the bed at the rhythm her fingers arrange. She wagers she could remedy that, if only Philippa's eyes weren't so unforgiving and she wasn't drilling her into the mattress with all the force her arm could muster. 

Something intangible but nonetheless unmistakably fierce starts roiling in her abdomen, gathering where the tips of Philippa's fingers are bruising and fanning upwards and upwards and upwards, to Triss’s throat where she groans and tilts her head back helplessly. 

She keeps rolling her hips to the fast pace Philippa has set for her, but the more she chases after the feeling the more it overwhelms her, and positive after a while that the coil of pleasure is wound too tightly not to come loose, she lets rip. 

"Fuck, fuck- Philippa," she's shouting in whimpers, legs wrapped around her lower back and trapping her dexterous palm where she needs it. 

And Philippa is furious, lips curved in a sneer and eyes narrowed harshly, but the "Triss!" she warns lowly is admittedly of little use when Triss has her fingers hostage against the apex of her thighs and she's moaning so unreservedly into Philippa's neck. 

Philippa must quickly realize that the only way out is to finish her off, because she's hissing "damn you," the next moment and she's leaning down to seal the sounds back into Triss’s throat with her violent kiss. 

The pace hastens even more for a few agonizing moments, Triss gasping breathlessly in Philippa's lips, and when Philippa's skilled thumb finds purchase at the top, she snaps, collapsing. 

She cries out, starved for breath when Philippa is so fervently attempting to simultaneously silence her and guide her through the avalanche of sensations. 

It's a lost cause - a hopeless case if Triss has ever known one, and the frustrated growls Philippa sears into her lips only confirm it. Triss is still panting and whining incoherently, louder than even she had originally intended, and it's beyond doubt that the retribution for this will be severe. 

Her toes are curled and she's aware she's shaking, hands hooked in the tangle of Philippa's hair; as aware as she is of the fact that Philippa's fingers are less than gentle and her kiss more than forceful. 

But after a few minutes of writhing and pursuing remnants of pleasure in the aftershocks, Triss finally finds herself in a position to rectify that even infinitesimally. Her erratic twitching slows to a languid stretching of loose limbs, and her deep heaves of breath become satisfied purrs. 

She cups Philippa's jaw and returns the kiss in earnest, soft where the other woman's lips are unkind and pliant where Philippa seems inclined to tear her apart.

Triss hums and sighs merrily into the loop of their tongues, just like she knows Philippa enjoys but would never openly admit to, and she pulls her further in the cradle of her body. 

Fresh figs and pineapple are still tangy on Philippa's lips, residue delights from the dinner they shared with Margarita, and Triss smiles when she licks in and catches some of the flavor on her own tongue. 

Philippa opens her eyes to deliver what looks like an unduly cautionary glare, so Triss lets her lips meander around her mouth; on her chin, up her jawline, to her ear, layering open-mouthed kisses one after the other for fear that if she affords Philippa the time to react, the punishment will be grievous. 

"Thank you," she murmurs as her tongue traces semi-circles under Philippa's earlobe, then once more whispers it for good measure when she pulls back to tug at her bottom lip with half-lidded eyes and what she hopes is the perfect embodiment of naivete on her face. 

It's a temporary reprieve, and Triss knows the matter will be far from settled for the next days, but she's relieved all the same to find that the once vicious touch on her lower abdomen has eased into an absent caress, and the next press of Philippa's lips against her tastes more like begrudging desire than harsh reprimand. 

.

"So tell me," Rita's voice is suspiciously lilted, and Triss can already guess at the direction of this conversation before it's even half-formed. "When did little Merigold become such an exhibitionist?" 

Triss lifts an eyebrow and grins coquettishly. 

"Were we that loud?" She asks. "I hadn't realized. Forgive me."

There's not a trace of remorse on her face. 

Rita shakes her head playfully. "It's the Yennefer effect inside of you, surely."

Triss snorts and looks away for a brief second, allowing herself space for the name and the accompanying pang of guilt to settle before speaking again. 

"Don't go telling Philippa that." Rita promptly chuckles, and they continue pacing through the hallways slowly, checking for young insurgents. 

"How was she?" She asks then, after a particular memory of sprinting across these very corridors as a child rippled in her mind's eye. 

Rita throws her a sideways glance, but to her credit, remains rather composed. "Yennefer?" 

The clarification is unnecessary, but Triss nods out of courtesy. 

"Fierce. Unmanageable," she muses and shrugs, pausing momentarily to carefully examine the penumbra by a nook in the wall as if she expects a novice to jump out any moment. "But in the end, she chose to be as much a stranger to me as she was to you."

Triss scoffs. "We both know that is far from the truth."

For a long time, Rita maintains the quiet. Throughout the halls all that can be heard are the sloshing of their gowns on the floor, the arrhythmic clicks of their heels against tile and the occasional door hinge opening to monitor the usual suspect spots for rebels. 

She can recall fooling around with maca and fenugreek in this very same room, inhaling fumes until her cheeks were flushed red as roses and her breaths resembled more animalistic pants than anything remotely human. She remembers Tissaia's palpable disapproval and a stern talking to, and if she stretches her memory thin enough, she can almost hear Keira's unabated sniggers behind the Rectoress's back as if she were here right now. 

It's a bittersweet memory, and Triss tentatively adds it to the seemingly never-ending collection of those in the back of her mind. 

"You're probably right," Rita cuts through the silence suddenly, extending an arm in front of her to make sure she will not be moving any further. 

"What?" Triss asks. 

But Rita is mouthing the words to a discretion sphere, legs steadfast on the ground, and when Triss stares ahead to see what's necessitating such effort, she glimpses two young girls around the corner of corridor. One of them is brimming with tears and the other is mumbling tiny comforts - she doesn't know what about but it's unauthorised to stay past midday's curfew regardless, and she wonders why Rita is so slow to react. 

She goes to ask but then she catches Rita's smile at the girls' retreating forms; she looks content with the outcome and Triss is once again abruptly reminded that her habit of confounding Margarita Laux Antille with Tissaia de Vries is a tired one. 

Of course Rita has no intention of punishing two girls lingering in the halls past curfew; Rita, who has the mellow intuitions of a mother and the past experiences as a wayward child to boot. Rita, who has probably at one point or another dropped unconscious in this hallway or the next, three sheets to the wind and philosophising on love even as a young novice. 

Rita, whose voice is gentle and delicate even as her cutting is cruelly precise when she turns and laments, "You're right. She had plenty more reasons to hate you when she'd loved you the most," and then smiles, a bitter, sincere apology. 

Even when she's so brutally honest and Triss is so terribly exposed, Rita is still so sweet, so easy to acquit of any trivial wrong she might have committed, and Triss thinks then that she's the best of them. 

Equal parts what Tissaia would have wanted all of them to be and what Tissaia had lacked herself. 

Triss forces a small smile even as the pressure builds behind her eyes and her hands tremble where they're clasped at her stomach, because Rita deserves at least that much. 

. 

There's a technique to cutting through sandalwood; it's not as straightforward as muttering a removal spell and forcing into its heart - but her words of wisdom are wasted on deaf ears as she catches sight of a girl who's attempting to steam through powdered sapwood. 

That particular extract of oil will be of abhorrent quality, and try as she might she cannot bring herself to smile even a tad bit encouragingly when the novice peers up at her hopefully. 

Behind her, Annaïs is indicating how to initiate the distillation process with authority in her tone, but admittedly not enough of it, judging by the gall of her students as they chat and bicker at her side. 

Triss traces abstract lines over the fire tongs on the counter next to her, glaring at them intently. 

They take one look at her stance and rush back to their stations. 

And that's the Tissaia effect inside of her, surely, but Triss doubts it would have been quite as productive if these weren't students from the west wing; they didn't hear her midnight indiscretions a few nights ago, though they are most definitely well informed of them by now.

She chuckles to herself, pondering on what Tissaia would have had to say if she were here to witness Triss co-teaching a class like this, with evident threats in her eyes and perverse visions of Philippa playing in her head. 

Her eyes crinkle and she smiles at Annaïs, who's none the wiser about her internal musing. 

Oftentimes it's relieving to be able to associate memories of Tissaia with something other than sadness and regret, even if those moments are far in between and all-too-easily knuckling under the nasty odor of overheated sandalwood oil and the high-pitched squeals of a novice whose dress is burning at the hem.

.

Triss brings it up when they're in the gardens at Tretogor palace; it's neutral enough territory and if there's even a smithereen of a chance that Philippa will agree to this, she'd rather depart from here for Gors Velen rather than from Montecalvo. 

She left Aretuza arm-in-arm with Philippa with promises to Margarita that she would do everything in her power to return in time, and she intends to keep that promise. 

She adopts the appropriate tone - innocent but tinged with suggestion - and twirls the petunia between her fingers absently. 

"All I'm saying is, it would be a solid opportunity to re-establish rapport with some of the Northern mages."

"No."

Triss bites at her gums and stills, her posture evidently exasperated enough to elicit a sigh from Philippa when she glances over her shoulder. 

"If it's so important to you, feel free to attend." She makes a dismissive motion with her hand. "I will not stop you."

It's a deliberate choice of wording; full of pretense and contempt. Ifs are unnecessary when they are both so well aware that 'important' is too inadequate a description for how Triss feels about the whole ordeal. 

She walks closer and purses her lips when the guarded aloofness in Philippa's eyes sharply increases tenfold. 

"Philippa," she says, "it's not like you to pass up gratis cognac and soft sawder."

Two can play this game. 

Philippa's jaw flutters. "Were I destitute of tasteless lip-homage and a pliant tongue between my thighs, I'd need not look further than here. A trip across the lands is hardly necessary."

Triss clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and looks away. That Philippa could weaponize vulgarity so readily was a talent Triss had yet to comprehend. 

"It will be a modest setting - none of the usual carousing," she argues, though she knows it's wasted breath. "A ceremony of reverence. It would please me greatly if you could accompany me."

"And it would please me greatly if gold sprouted from cherry trees," Philippa doesn't exactly bear a scowl on her face as she rejects her, but her expression is a measured show of antipathy. "Sadly life cares very little about what we deem pleasant. You will manage alone." 

Triss tosses aside the abused petunia and places her hands on her hips in frustration. "You are not seriously suggesting I show up in one of those banquets on my own. Everyone will be running off at the mouth about it!" 

"I thought this wouldn't be like the usual gatherings... A ceremony of reverence was it?" Philippa deadpans and before Triss can formulate a response, starts walking again. "Take one of your prized boy-toys."

"I don't want them," Triss exhales, loud and tired and unwise in how she's antagonizing Philippa. "I want you." Then, before she can think better of it, adds in a breath : "She's a significant part of your life too."

"She wasn't," Philippa halts and corrects curtly, both the present tense and the contention. Her tone is brusque. "I've lived for hundreds of years in this Continent. Tissaia had hardly any negligible impact on any of them."

"You were her greatest student."

"I was her greatest disappointment," Philippa states impassively. Despite the weight those words would normally carry, her face is naught but a deftly crafted veneer of blankness. "No matter; the feeling was mutual."

Triss similarly tries to quell the instinctive display of sympathy in her own expression, but the derisive curl of Philippa's lips tells her her attempt is largely unsuccessful. 

"Save the looks of commiseration for the memorial, Triss," she mocks. "Your performance will surely find more appreciation there."

It would be offensive if she weren't so inured to it. Alas, Philippa's hackneyed insults have lost their force over time, the brunt of it giving way to a numb acquiescence that stings decisively less than constantly challenging her. 

Rita will have a few select words to say about this, Triss laments, but she chooses not to share her thoughts when she strolls forward, lips pursed and arm tentative where it hooks under Philippa's. 

The silence is loaded, Philippa's elbow is barely locking her in, and the hold is loose, but they easily move towards the Court's entrance in sync. 

That she's not physically pushing her away reminds Triss that there are small triumphs to be found even in defeat. 


	3. Chapter 3

III. 

They meet at times, with Dandelion, in a stretch of land somewhere between Lyria and Rivia, where a rundown tavern and a few merchants pause to rest on their long journeys. 

It's not always effortless, to feign ease and peace when they're only a day's trip away from that cursed place, but between the two of them, they manage. 

It's been increasingly harder to leave Redania lately, though young Radovid has been loathe to accommodate her or Philippa or them together in the castle for that matter - for reasons that Triss is slightly scared to think about. 

Philippa has been growing noiselessly restless, which is in at least ten different ways worse than had she been willing to vent to Triss about it. It's no consolation that this time she'd been adamant to accompany Triss on her trip; claiming she has casual business to take care of in Lyria yet refusing resolutely to discuss it, as if it's a State secret. 

For the last few weeks seemingly everything has acquired State secret status between them, whether spoken or not, and it's driving her up the wall. And unlike Philippa, she's not prone to digging a ten-foot hole inside of her and jampacking all her feelings in it until their intensity is snuffed out of them. 

There's no equivalence to be found between how Philippa handles her stress and how Triss does (or more appropriately, doesn't), and that's been a near constant source of tension at home. 

It's why when the bard prances through the door with what appears to be a brand new lute in hand and a wide grin on his face, Triss sighs and breathes a little easier, a little more like there are perhaps reasons to be minutely happy rather than consistently woeful. 

"Triss Merigold!" He exclaims, and the announcement of his presence comes in the form of his unceremonious dropping in the chair across from her, eyes twinkling. "You are truly a sight for sore eyes."

It seems genuine, and she winks at him, beside herself. 

"Dandelion," she greets warmly. "I must admit I may have missed your loud presence." 

"May? You wound me." 

"Apologies," Triss laughs. "I most definitely have. How are you my friend?" 

"Spectacularly fashionable and inclined to entertain as always," he claps his hands and leans forward eagerly, fingers toying with the major chords intently. "How much time do you have?" 

Triss tilts her head and hums, kindly and sincerely. 

"However much you want," she offers softly, and is sufficiently repaid with the most authentic look of excitement she has witnessed in the past year. 

. 

"How is Redania, truly?" Dandelion inquires after a few long minutes of walking silently next to her through the field. It's a miracle he'd stayed quiet for so long, she supposes, though the fact is nothing to be pleased with. 

Dandelion is energetic as always, with a keen mouth and a tune at the ready, decorated stories and lewd jokes on the tip of his tongue as if they are extension of him - and they are, she's certain of it. 

But his intervals of contemplation are longer, his eyes when he speaks of adventures dimmer, and the dull ache on the back of his words painstakingly evident to someone who fosters a similar sort of helpless suffering; someone like Triss. 

She stares at him from the corner of her eye, considering her next words carefully before she allows them to unfurl into the air between them. 

"You've not been traveling?" She asks, fiddling with the ring on her left hand in knowledge that she's demanding sensitive honesty, and will most probably later be requested of it in turn. 

Dandelion is still smiling when she glances at him again, but his jaw is significantly tighter. 

"Not as much as..." he clears his throat and stares up at her. "Not as much, no."

Triss nods. She sighs as she swipes at a defiant curl of hair over her eye. 

"It's faring well, I suppose," she shrugs. "Radovid is an extremely zealous young royal. With the support of the Council and the agency, he's well on his way of becoming a significant monarch."

"Is it true he shagged a cow?" 

Triss shoots him a look and rolls her eyes. "I can't even begin to imagine what sort of venerable establishment let loose that sort of invaluable intel..." 

"Do not mock, Triss," Dandelion scolds haughtily, a playful edge to his face. "How else was I to learn the news of the world? On that note, tell me, how is madame sharp talons?"

"Philippa," Triss corrects, and slaps him lightly on the shoulder. 

"Is that not what I said?" He grimaces and rubs soothing circles at his arm, grumbling something about sorceresses and violence under his breath. 

Triss smirks. "She's also well. Busy as usual."

"Busy with?" 

She shrugs, "business."

Dandelion guffaws next to her. "Goodness, this is more taxing than pulling teeth." 

She's always wondered why Dandelion cares enough to ask; initially she would have wagered he'd be less than amicable with Triss after finding out what an instrumental role she ultimately had in their friends' demise. At the very least, she would have figured he would be downright hostile towards Philippa, but whether it be because he's scared shitless of her or because Triss is somewhat of the last tether he has to the lost besides his own memory, he perseveres. 

Or perhaps it's that they're both feeling lonely, so desolate in their silent grief that there's no line to draw between enemies or friends; only the concentrated effort not to break. 

.   
  
"Would you like to talk about it?" 

Triss has asked this question in a million different ways at a million different times before, and only one thing has remained invariable : Philippa's subsequent rejection. That alone should speak volumes about Triss’s expectations for success this time round. 

Still, her eyes are homely and her smile warm. 

Perhaps it's that she's feeling exhausted and whittled down to her bare essentials after a day of lighthearted jesting with Dandelion while carefully softshoeing around their shared mourning. Or maybe she scratched her brain raw thinking about Geralt's motionless body on that lakeside, Yennefer's erratic breaths and Ciri's empty promise.

The wounds are gaping and unpretty, and if there's any chance Philippa will compromise it's now, when Triss is too emotionally spent to fuss over it. 

But she's silent, (she rarely isn't, nowadays), sipping at her cup of coffee by the desk languidly and measuring Triss up meticulously. 

It could have been crueller, the blatant dismissal of her question, so Triss hums after a second and shuffles closer, unimpassioned. 

When she reaches Philippa, she grips the armrest and lifts the hem of her dress upwards, so she can nestle herself on top of her lap without undue interference. Philippa stares up at her, still with that thorough, dark shine in her eyes, and that makes it both easy and difficult to slip the cup out of her hands and steal a gulp of it before setting it on the mahogany tip behind her. 

The coffee is black, bitter on her gums and Triss licks her lips, parched for the aftertaste. 

"Would you like to do something else?" She murmurs then, leaning in to gently kiss the tiny mole under the corner of Philippa's eye. 

Philippa's hands are firm on her waist, anchoring her, and she leans up to find Triss’s lips ascertained, but not without softness. 

They stay like that for a while, with Triss's fingers cradling the sharpness of Philippa's jaw and their lips tightly clasped, barely moving, barely breathing. She's lost in the feeling; for a moment there's nowhere to be and nothing to do but press small secrets into Philippa's lips and sweat in her lap where the heat between their garments is fast growing. 

"Do you feel safe?" Philippa breathes on her chin, and Triss watches her steadily even as her mind whirs with questions : from whom, when, why? 

But she opts for a short "yes," because today she's been only five minutes into Philippa's hands but in reality has spent entire years under her hold, and her sense of security has only ever been threatened when she's futilely tried to escape it. 

Philippa is mouthing at her throat, and her hands are everywhere all at once. "I don't," she confesses - the admission makes Triss heady; she wonders if one could get drunk on honesty. 

But she waits and waits, exhales shakily when Philippa is urging her hips to move and when her fingers hook at the tuft of hair on the back of her neck insistently. 

Triss pushes closer, until Philippa's doublet is creasing under her weight, and she tugs at the skin underneath her ear, sucking.

"I feel..." Philippa's eyes close, "outpaced." 

Triss releases the irritated flesh and lifts a thumb to smooth out the deepening frown between Philippa's eyebrows.

"By whom?" She prods. 

"Circumstances," Philippa sighs, but doesn't open her eyes. "We're losing. It's unfamiliar." 

She's glad Philippa can't see her because she's certain her eyes are overspilling with sentiment, and the next kiss she plants on Philippa's lips is too full to be insignificant. 

"I don't think so," she whispers, humorously. 

She doesn't know what it is that's outrunning Philippa. She thinks she might never find out. She thinks if anything could ever outmatch Philippa it's Nature herself, and even then the struggle would be noteworthy. 

But she says this, because if nothing else is true and everything else is lost, it's all she knows :

"I'm definitely winning. I have you don't I?" 

Philippa's eyes slide open, uncharacteristically stripped of any added layers. They're two raging maelstroms of emotion; Triss has never seen her less composed. 

She has never seen her more beautiful. 

"Yes," she nods, too straightforward to be anything less than absolutely sincere. "I suppose you do."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ❤️


End file.
